The scout followed the suggestion. What was found, a moment later, startled all of them. A man was, indeed, lying on the floor, just as Dell had said, and he was a white man. His rough clothing was ragged and torn, and there was a clotted smear on the breast of his faded blue shirt. His head was thrown back, his arms were flung out stiffly from his shoulders, and there was a glassy stare--the stare of death--in his eyes. “Bascomb!” muttered Nomad. “Yes,” said the scout, “it is Bascomb, and he has paid the penalty of his misdeeds with his life. The wound he received in that ambush was mortal. Once more, pards, Geronimo has overplayed his hand. It may be that the chief collected his renegades and left the reservation for the sole purpose of laying that ambush and taking Bascomb away from the soldiers; but, in the attempt, Bascomb stopped a bullet. Instead of rescuing the deserter, Geronimo killed him.” “Justice reaches an evil-doer in many ways,” remarked Dell. “Right you are, Dell. And it is just as well, I take it, that Bascomb should fall by the guns of his red allies as to spring a trap in some Federal prison. He shot a guard when he escaped from Fort Apache, but the guard was not killed. Bascomb could not have been hung for that; but, unless I am far wide of my trail, he _could_ have been swung up for this last bit of treachery. Undoubtedly he had knowledge of Geronimo’s plans, and, having that, was virtually a confederate and jointly responsible with Geronimo for the lives of the escort.” The scout turned to his trapper pard. “Search through the fellow’s pockets, Nick,” said he. “There may be something of importance there that the military will be glad to get hold of.” Nomad made the search, but did not find a single article of personal property. “Ther ’Paches hev gone through his pockets ahead o’ us,” said Nomad. “But hyar’s somethin’, Buffler.” Nomad picked up a canteen from Bascomb’s side, and shook it. The canteen was nearly full. There was also a canvas bag within reach of Bascomb’s hand which was found to contain jerked venison, and a few corn-cakes. “How d’ye account fer ther water an’ ther chuck, Buffler?” inquired Nomad. “Think ther ’Paches left ’em hyar so’st Bascomb’s sperrit could hev somethin’ ter live on while goin’ ter ther happy huntin’-grounds?” “No,” reflected the scout. “More than likely, Nick, the Apaches saw that Bascomb could not live. After stripping him of what few articles he had upon his person, the reds abandoned him--left him in this hole in the hill to die alone. The water and food were left beside him to keep the spark of life in his body as long as possible.” “Waal, no loss without some gain,” growled the trapper. “We kin use ther water and ther grub mighty handy. Hev a drink, Dell?” At first the girl drew back from the offered canteen with an expression of horror on her face; then, shrugging her shoulders and making a virtue of necessity, she swallowed some of the water.